


Specters

by villainsmatter



Series: The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb [2]
Category: The Nevernight Chronicles - Jay Kristoff
Genre: A LOT of Angst, Angst, Character Study, I should have studied today but here we are, Multi, Post-Canon, crying over fictional character as always, darkdawn spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 23:24:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22960183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/villainsmatter/pseuds/villainsmatter
Summary: It's been quite some time since the events of truedark, and Jonnen cannot stop thinking about what happened and what could have been. And he feels an enormous amount of guilt for it.Because, as Jay Kristoff himself said: "Some loyalties just don't die quietly, no matter what the storybooks say". And nine years don’t disappear in the blink of an eye.
Relationships: Liviana Scaeva/Julius Scaeva (implied), Mia Corvere/Ashlinn Järnheim
Series: The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1652158
Kudos: 7





	Specters

**W** hen Jonnen was little and couldn’t fall asleep, his nanny used to tell him stories to keep him company.

She was a Vaanian woman, hair so blonde they almost seemed white at first gaze and eyes of the same color of the sky during the nevernight, and her narrations were living testimony of the culture she was a part of, so different from the ones Itreyan children were used to reading in books that often they had the opposite effect to the one intended: raptured in the plots his nanny weaved, Jonnen lost even that little tiredness he still had.

His favorite story, and therefore the one she kept telling him over and over again, almost to nausea, talked about a little girl in a faraway kingdom, kidnapped by an evil witch when she was still a newborn and caged up in the highest tower ever built, without a way out*.

It wasn’t the story per se which fascinated him -the idea of the love story and of the happy ending didn’t really attract him-, but the thought of that girl, kept from her home and her parents by a stranger who’d raised her as if she were hers for years, and of what she did, what she felt.

“Did the little girl love he witch?” he had asked the nanny once, taking her by surprise.

He didn’t remember what she had answered him, in truth, -time had passed and those memories seemed to belong to another life-, but he knew he hadn’t been satisfied with it.

At night -at _night_ -, instead of sleeping, Jonnen often looked outside his window, towards the moon - _the moon_ -, and wondered whether his nanny could have made him fall asleep, had she been there with him.

She was an old woman, who had already taken care of his mother before him, and Jonnen couldn’t stop imagining where she could be. If she knew. If she was asking herself the same thing about him, in that exact moment.

He doubted that.

He had also thought of looking for her, after the situation had at least stabilized itself a bit.

Just to make her know he was fine.

But she had always lived in the Ribs. And that meant that during truedark she had been very close to the showdown.

Jonnen knew many had died, on that turn.

_He knew it, he had seen it, he kept seeing it._

He wasn’t sure he wanted to also know their names.

He had also been presumed dead, after a brief research. The Luminatii -the few still alive- already had enough to worry about without looking for Julius Scaeva’s son - _Julius Scaeva’s son_ -.

Jonnen wasn’t even sure what they would do to him, if they found him.

And that was the reason why he hadn’t objected, in fact, why he had almost felt relieved, after Mercurio had told him it would be wise to keep a low profile for some time.

For quite some time.

Cutting his hair had been his own idea: to go better unnoticed, he had said. The picture the people had of Lucius Atticus Scaeva was the one of a boy with thick curly hair, and it would be prudent -even though superfluous, maybe- making some changes to his appearance.

In a moment so delicate, safety had to come before everything else.

He hadn’t even blinked at seeing Sidnious arrive in front of him, already ready to do it. He had simply closed his eyes, tightened his fists, and listened to the noise of the scissors cutting.

_Click,_

_Click,_

_Click._

He had found the courage of looking himself at the mirror only a couple of days later.

He had never found himself vain. Or, at least, that’s how he liked to think about it.

He knew how much looks mattered, how much the people looked at appearance and how little at substance, and most of all he knew -he, son of the most important marrowborn- the difference between good and bad quality, but he had never been obsessed by it.

In spite of this, he had always liked pausing for a couple of minutes, every day, in front of a reflecting surface. But the reason was another.

When he was seven, his mother - _Liviana. His mother, Liviana_ \- had knelt next to him and tossed his hair: “You’re still a child” she had said to him, her eyes glittering “but you already look so much like your father. Once grown up, you’ll see: you’ll be exactly like him.”

He remembered his chest filling with pride, hearing those words.

He had smiled, a smile so wide his mother couldn’t help but smiling back at him, and he had thrown his arms around her neck: “And like you, mother” he had said, sure she would like to hear it “I’ll be like you too!”

He had felt Liviana’s body tensing up to that words and, while the smile faded away from her face, he had realized he had said something terribly wrong.

Jonnen had lowered his gaze, all the joy felt up until that moment suddenly forgotten, and asked for forgiveness, not even knowing for what.

His mother had shook her head and told him it hadn’t been his fault -but not that there hadn’t been anything wrong with his sentence, _that_ he had noticed-. Then, she had smiled again at him, but without the same sincerity as before, and her eyes, Jonnen had noticed that too, had remained sad.

From that day, for a couple of weeks, he had payed attention and realized no one had ever told him he looked like his mother.

But his child’s brain hadn’t managed to give this discovery the deserved importance, and had come to the conclusion that it had been because his father - _his father_ \- was Julius Scaeva. Consul of the Republic. There couldn’t be a better compliment for his child than to say he resembled a man like him.

Now, he struggled to think about those days and spent as little time as possible in front of a mirror.

And still, from time to time, an almost morbid curiosity had the best of him, and he couldn’t help but give a look at his reflection.

He was afraid, while doing so, but also glad there wasn’t any Mr Kindly around ready to eat his fear.

He would gaze at his face, his eyes, his neck, and then try to imagine himself all grown up. An adult. And it was then that his father’s reflection replaced his.

 _No_.

But it wasn’t the fear of becoming him which tormented him. Because that, he knew, was something it was right to feel. No one could blame him for those thoughts, if they knew. And if he talked about them with Mercurio, or with Sidonius, or with Mia, he would receive only reassurances and kind words.

The true problem was that inside of him, in the darkest and secretest parts of his soul, he felt it would be much worse - _much worse_ \- if his adult version were a complete stranger, who had nothing to do with Julius Scaeva.

And he felt ashamed.

He felt terribly ashamed.

Then, to distract himself, he would try to experiment the opposite: he would try to find, in himself, elements which he knew didn’t belong to his father, but to the woman who had given birth to him.

The one who Mia called mother.

The one who Mia -he felt it every time he met her eyes- wanted in her heart he considered his mother too.

 _Alinne Corvere_.

His sister had tried many times to talk to him about her, but had always clashed with a silent and steady reticence and had never insisted. And Jonnen was grateful to her for this. Because whatever curiosity he could feel for a ghost he had no memory of was suffocated by the memories of much thicker specters.

**T** he day he had discovered Mia was still alive -the day he had found her in front of him- he had felt an happiness so absolute it had left him breathless: he had run towards her, anticipating everyone else -Mercurio, Sidonius, Croleone: frozen in a surprise which tasted like incredulity- and had thrown his arms around her, calling her name. She had hugged him back, held him close and pretended not to notice the tears rolling down his cheeks.

In that moment, he had felt almost sure that everything would be fine. Like magic. That a chapter had closed and a new one had begun.

But rarely things are that easy.

He loved his sister. And it was to that love he held onto when, in the morning or in the evening, he felt he was drifting away.

He would fix his gaze on her hair, her face, her hands - _never her eyes_ \- and struggle to find the strength to forget everything else.

 _She’s here_ , he would tell himself.

_She_

_is_

_here_.

As if her presence could compensate the void left by the ones who, instead, could never be “there” again.

He didn’t regret helping her.

He would have despised himself even more had he found in his heart even a crumb of regret for his actions, during truedark.

But, _and there lied the problem_ , he couldn’t say, in all honesty, he regretted going with his father, that day at the Silent Mountain.

He didn’t regret hugging his mother once more. Seeing her. Hearing her voice.

Had he known it would have been one of the last times…

His behavior during truedark had seemed to him -and kept seeming to him- the only one possible.

He couldn’t have acted otherwise.

And it was that lack of choice which scared him.

Because had he had it, had the situation been different, had he been put before a crossroad in the true sense of the word, he was afraid of what he could have done.

He had hated Scaeva in that moment. That was true. Upon seeing his mother’s body, there, left lifelessly on the ground, disgust and contempt had taken the place up until that moment occupied by admiration and respect.

But.

Obviously, there was a “but”.

But those scenes had kept obsessing him for many days, and weeks, and months after the fact.

And he had felt, he had understood, that that… thing which had killed Liviana wasn’t to be considered his father more than Alinne Corvere was to be considered his mother.

_And what would have happened, then, had there been his sister and his father fighting, that turn, and not the beings Niah had wanted them to become?_

_Who would he have chosen?_

He had found himself desiring, more than once, that at least one of the sides -one of the extremities which were pulling him towards themselves, so strongly he could almost feel his mind break in two- had only pretended to love him.

That, like in the story with the witch and the tower, there were good guys and bad guys, and he had just to learn which were which.

It would have been easier, that way.

He could have wept for Eclipse and Butcher without feeling like an hypocrite.

Without feeling like a traitor.

But Jonnen remembered far too well the way Liviana had screamed his name -his _other_ name- seeing him in front of her, safe and sound. The way she would hold him and kiss him before sending him to bed. And the way she would smile at him, with pride and joy.

And he remembered, unwillingly, the lessons with his father, who had taught him to bend the shadows to his will. His small nods of approval in front of his improvements. And the way he had looked at him, an arm outstretched and death in his eyes, after shielding him from Adonai’s magic.

And how could he condemn them, while knowing no one in that story was innocent?

**O** ften, he would try to forget.

He would repeat his name -his _true_ name- between himself, over and over again, so many times he was sick of it.

Accompany Ash every time there was something to buy at the market.

Ask Sidonius to teach him how to sword-fight.

But he would still keep turning around every time he heard someone call “Lucius” on the streets.

Looking at the spice shops, he could _always_ identify his mother’s favorite scent.

And every time he would lose balance, and crumble on the ground, and his patient teacher would put him back on his feet and explain him “ _what he truly needed_ ” to improve, Jonnen would hear another voice repeat those words, complete that sentence, and would walk away with an excuse, the heart heavy and the certainty that everyone, there, would despise him if they knew what he truly felt.

Those were the moments where it seemed to him that someone else was taking over his body.

He would look at Mercurio, at Ash, look the ones he now considered as his closest friends and feel nothing but anger.

And even thinking about Mia -with the girl she loved, with Mr Kindly, with her now completed vengeance- wouldn’t help at all.

Because if now she had all she had wanted, what did he have?

And then, after the storm had passed and his mind had returned calm and clear, he would detest himself for those thoughts. Mia had lost much more than him, he would say to himself. Mia had suffered too. Mia had seen her parents die at his same age.

And now that she had found happiness, now that they could truly start anew again, he had the courage to blame her for what she had taken from him?

His sister?

Who loved him?

Who he loved?

Who had risked her life to keep him safe?

What right did he have to weep the ones who had caused her pain in the first place?

_Selfish_

_Selfish_

_Selfish_

And that was the same feeling he would feel upon hearing a stranger, on ‘Grave’s streets, comment on what had happened during truedark. Their opinion on the facts -and on their protagonists- was always the same.

 _You weren’t there_ , he wanted to shout, every single time.

 _You don’t know_.

But he would bite his tongue, swallow the words, and keep going.

_How could he say he loved people he couldn’t even advocate for?_

_How could he advocate for them, knowing what they had done?_

He felt like he was secretly mourning them, while not feeling allowed to do so.

**T** here was only one person, between them all, he felt a stable and bitter aversion.

Marielle.

He was happy Adonai had died, and, even though he had never told anyone, he believed -hoped- that she knew anyway. That she knew that he, he at least, hadn’t forgotten. That, every time he looked at her, he saw once again his brother freeing himself from the cuffs, using his blood to try to him him.

Hitting someone else, in his place.

It was that which Jonnen considered the breaking point.

And despite knowing it was probably not true, that Scaeva would have lost control of his powers anyway, that the result would have been the same, he couldn’t forgive the two siblings for what they had done.

The fact that they had been separated, that she was live and he wasn’t, felt to him as something very similar to justice.

And he was glad he didn’t have to feel guilty, at least for those thoughts.

**J** onnen would look at the moon for hours, at night, instead of sleeping, and would ask himself how Anais was, up there in the sky, with a mother who had sacrificed centuries and human lives to bring him back, four sisters who ignored him and a father who refused to recognize him as his son.

He hoped he was happy.

He knew he wasn’t.

And when he fell asleep, when, finally, after an infinte amount of time spent looking at the ceiling, he felt darkness surrounding him and stealing him from his own mind, he would regularly dream of the Ribs.

He would dream nothing had ever happened, that he was still the son of the only Consul of the Itreyan Republic, that his mother was Liviana Scaeva and that his life would never change. He would dream of manipulating shadows -another thing that was taken away from him, after Anais’ rebirth- and of waiting impatiently for the day he would have a friend as faithful as Whisper was to his father. He would dream that the _venatus_ was still distant, and all its consequences with him.

After those dreams, he would always wake up with his cheeks wet with tears.

As soon as someone else noticed -and it happened most of the times-, he would find himself with a hot cup of something in his hands and an arm around his shoulders.

“You’ll see, boy, things will get better” they would tell him “Even the nightmares fade away, with time”

And then he would lower his gaze, nod and take small sips of his drink.

Jonnen couldn’t find the courage to tell them that nightmares were _never_ the reason why he cried.

*Yes, yes I'm using Rapunzel's story (the original one, though, not the Disney version). I thought that, since Vaanian people look like Germans/people from the North, it could make sense... 

**Author's Note:**

> I don't have much to say, except that I love angst and I don't buy the imagine of an happy Jonnen who never gives another thought to the people he had considered his parents for nine years. Hadn't they loved him, maybe, but luckily? Unluckily? That wasn't the case. (And, yes, Scaeva loved Jonnen. I accept no criticism)  
> I hope you loved the story! If you did, please tell me what you thought of it (as always I translate from Italian to English so tell me if there are bad mistakes I have to fix!). Also, if you want to chat about... well, anything you want, my Tumblr url is "villainsmatter" and my Nevernight sideblog is called "senatum-populiis"!


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